Chapter Eight - Markian
She looks small in this light. Smaller than she did in the boardroom, smaller than the night I first saw her peering through the greenery at the edge of a world that should have chewed her up and spit her out.
I know better than to trust appearances.
I watch her now, slumped in the chair, wrists tied behind her back, ankles lashed tight, hair fallen across her cheek.
Her breathing is slow, the shallow drag of someone on the edge of waking.
I cross one ankle over my knee and lean back, eyes never leaving her face.
The kitchen clock ticks in the silence. She stirs, lashes fluttering against pale skin, a faint sound escaping her lips.
Her head lolls, muscles testing their limits.
For a second she looks peaceful, almost childlike.
Then memory returns. I see it in the way her body jerks, tension snapping through her like a live wire.
She pulls at the ropes. Her chest rises quick and sharp. I watch the fight bloom in her eyes, panic taking over. She turns, searching for any escape, any hope, but she freezes as soon as her gaze lands on me.
Good. She understands what’s real now.
“I am Markian Sharov,” I state, not wasting time. “What did you hear at the party?” My voice is flat, neither angry nor gentle. “What do you know?”
She tries to steady her breath, but she can’t hide the tremor in her voice. “I didn’t hear anything important. Just talk. Business. I don’t… I don’t know what you think I—”
“Don’t lie to me.” My words land between us like a hammer. “What did you understand?”
She hesitates, tongue flicking nervously over her lips. “I only heard… names. Some Russian. I don’t remember all of it, I swear.”
Her eyes are huge. I can read the truth in them, even if her mouth keeps trying for denial. The memory of what she overheard is written in every shallow breath, every inch of fear. She’s not stupid enough to pretend she knows nothing. She’s not smart enough to hide how much it scared her.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, letting the silence stretch until she squirms under its weight. “Who do you work for?” I ask, voice soft, dangerous.
Her jaw clenches. “No one. I’m a freelancer. I’m just a translator. Please, M-Markian, I don’t work for anyone. I’ve never told anyone, I never—”
I cut her off with a raised hand. “You’re not stupid, Jessa. Just reckless.”
The panic in her gaze sharpens, but I see defiance there too. Some stubborn little spark that refuses to be snuffed out. I find myself drawn to it, as much as I want to crush it. She doesn’t belong in this world, not really, but she keeps forcing herself to stand her ground.
I watch her chest rise and fall, quick, shallow, every muscle taut.
I want to scare her—want her to feel the edge she’s dancing on, to know that she’s alive only because I allow it.
But there’s something else gnawing at me, something I can’t name.
I want to touch her. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks, if that trembling is fear or something else.
So I do. Slowly, deliberately, I reach out.
My finger traces the line of her jaw, lingering at the pulse hammering in her neck.
She flinches, recoiling as far as the ropes allow, but she can’t escape.
I drag my fingertip down the line of her throat, over the delicate collarbone just visible above her shirt.
Her breath catches, chest stuttering beneath my touch.
Her fear is real, but there’s something else too: a heat, an ache I hadn’t expected to find.
I keep going, slow and careful, tracing the shape of her trembling. For a moment the kitchen is nothing but the sound of her breathing and the soft scrape of my skin against hers. I watch her, studying every reaction, every shiver.
Her eyes flutter closed, lashes trembling. When she opens them, her gaze locks on mine, wild and searching.
I don’t look away. I let her see exactly how much power I have, how much she’s given me just by surviving this long.
She tries to pull away, body twisting hard against the ropes, breath coming in frantic little gasps.
My fingers linger at the hollow of her throat, tracing the last of her heat before I let my hand fall.
She shrinks back as far as the restraints will allow, as if distance could erase what’s just passed between us.
She can’t get away. Not from me, not from this. Her skin is still warm where I touched her, a fragile tremble under my palm.
I watch her again for a long moment, studying the panic and the helpless defiance tangled together in her eyes. She’s fighting, but it’s hopeless. The realization flickers through her features, raw and painful.
A low sound slips from my lips—Russian, the old language that always tastes sharper when I’m amused. “Little innocent thing… you don’t even know how the world works.”
There’s mockery in it, and something darker, a hunger I don’t bother to hide. I shake my head, almost laughing. She’s soft, clean, untouched by the filth that stains men like me. Even now, tied and trembling, there’s a purity to her, a kind of fragile edge that drives me insane.
I know innocence when I see it. I can smell it.
There’s a lightness to her, a clarity that’s impossible to fake.
She hasn’t been claimed by anyone or anything.
She’s so breakable, so new. It tempts the worst parts of me, the old cravings that never really die.
The urge to corrupt, to ruin, to drag her into the darkness and see how she survives.
She’s staring at me, terrified, but she’s not begging. Not anymore. There’s a stubborn tilt to her chin that makes my blood stir.
I won’t kill her. Not tonight. Not in this kitchen, with her hands tied and her eyes wide and pleading. I could. It would be easy—one phone call, one slip of the knife, and she’d disappear into the city like so many before her.
Something stops me. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the thrill of having her here, helpless and alive, knowing she’s mine for as long as I choose.
I straighten, letting the moment hang between us, heavy and final. “You’ll be staying with me now,” I say, voice flat and absolute.
Her eyes go impossibly wide. She shakes her head, the fear coming back in waves. “No, please, you can’t. I won’t say anything. I promise. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again, I swear—”
I cut her off with a look. There’s no use arguing. The decision is made. She’s coming with me not by choice; I’ll force her if I have to.
I step away, pacing to the window, giving her space to process what I’ve said. She tugs at the ropes, writhes in the chair, but there’s no escape. I hear the faint, choked sound of her crying, a small sob she tries to swallow down.
“You have no say in this, Jessa,” I tell her, my tone almost gentle. “This is for your safety, and for mine.”
She chokes out, “My safety? You’re the one who—”
I turn, the look I give her cutting off whatever she meant to say. “It would be much easier to make you disappear; do you understand? I’m not choosing the easy way. For either of us.”
She stares at the floor, hair falling over her face. She’s trembling so hard I can see the movement from across the room.
I move back to the chair, kneel in front of her so we’re at eye level.
My voice drops low, just for her. “If you want to live, you’ll do as you’re told.
You’ll stay with me. You won’t run again.
You won’t try to call for help. If you do—” I let the threat hang, unfinished, but she understands.
I see it in the way she closes her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
I reach out, almost tender, and tuck her hair behind her ear. She shudders at my touch, but she doesn’t pull away this time. She’s learning. Or maybe she’s just exhausted. Either way, she’s mine now.
I rise to my feet, every movement measured. I call for Lui, my voice echoing in the hall. He appears almost instantly, eyes flicking from her to me and back again. He doesn’t need an explanation.
“Untie her,” I command. “Gently. She’s not to be harmed.”
Lui nods, moving to the chair. Jessa flinches at his touch, but he’s careful, unwinding the ropes from her wrists and ankles. She stays frozen, muscles locked tight, as if the bonds are still there. I watch her, arms crossed, as Lui steps away.
She doesn’t try to run. She just sits there, staring at her hands, skin red and marked from the ropes.
“Get up,” I say softly.
Slowly, she rises. Her legs are weak, knees shaking as she stands. I move closer, placing a steadying hand on her back, guiding her toward the door. She lets me, too afraid to resist.
“This isn’t forever,” I murmur, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Not so long as you stay on my good side.”
She doesn’t answer, just stumbles forward as I lead her out, leaving behind everything she once called safe.
I guide her out of the kitchen, hand firm at the small of her back. She’s stiff, every muscle resisting, but she doesn’t fight. Not really. Maybe she knows it would only make things worse. Maybe the fear has finally soaked through her bones, slowing her movements, dulling her edges.
We reach the hallway. She glances back, hope flickering. “Can I at least pack a bag?” Her voice is quiet, shaking but steady enough to ask.
I don’t slow. “No.”
She stumbles on the step, biting back a plea. “I need my things. My ID, my phone, clothes. Please. Just give me ten minutes. I won’t—”
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “Anything you need, Lui will come back for. You can write a list.”
She falters, disbelief mixing with desperation. “You’re not even going to let me take my own stuff?”
“Not now,” I say, tone final. “You don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t touch your phone. Understand?”
She says nothing. Her jaw tightens, and I know she’s biting down on a thousand words. I can feel the fury rolling off her in waves, but that’s better than panic. I’d rather her angry than hysterical.
We reach the street. Night air cuts sharp against her skin. She shivers, arms wrapping around herself as if she could shield her heart with nothing but bone and trembling muscle. The car waits at the curb, engine running. Lui stands by the open rear door, face blank, eyes unreadable.
I don’t waste time. I give her a gentle shove toward the car. “Get in.”
She balks for half a second, long enough to show she’s not broken yet, not entirely. She obeys, climbing into the back seat. Lui shuts the door behind her with a quiet finality.
I slide in after, taking the seat beside her. She’s pressed against the opposite door, as far from me as she can get. Her hands twist in her lap, knuckles white. I nod to Lui in the front. He puts the car in gear, pulling away from the curb in silence.
Jessa stares straight ahead, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.
The streetlights flash over her face, striping her skin with gold and shadow.
I don’t say anything, not yet. I watch her.
I wait for the moment she’ll look at me, see the shape of her future in my eyes, and finally understand there’s no way back to her old life.
Not tonight. Maybe not ever.